My wife’s gorgeous cousin Belle e-mailed her from the Chilterns the other evening, just as I was about to go out. It was one of those round-robin messages addressed to everyone you know well, inviting the recipient to sign up to a cause that the sender hopes and believes any sane person of good will would share with them.

This one was aimed at combating the singular evil of road-pricing, and — once it had finally finished with assertion — its argument consisted of four discrete elements. First, that the little black boxes that the Government is apparently planning to install in our cars are an infringement of our right to go where we will, unmonitored by the authorities. Secondly, that this little black box will cost each car-owner 200 quid. Thirdly, that Britain’s motorists will — on top of that — be charged for the privilege of using their own roads, which is iniquity squared. And finally that this is part of the unending “war on the motorist”, the latest in a long line of quasi-genocidal persecutions aimed at rubbing out our village Clarksons.

I suggested a response to this epistle and then went out into the evening, lamp-lit narrow street where we live, when three seconds later I was nearly knocked over by a silver car that came hurtling round the corner on its homeward rat-run, its driver gabbling into his hand-held mobile phone.

War against the motorist, I thought. Why not? The bastards are constantly at war with me.

A few days later I was messaged by an organisation announcing its entry into the world with an extended press release, the spit of my cousin-in-law’s missive. Motorists Voice had been set up because, it said, if government (or opposition) road-pricing proposals went ahead then “a considerable percentage of the population simply will not be able to afford to get to or undertake their work any longer . . .” Which is something of a “bleedin’ hell” proposition.

It is true that most policymakers believe that a form of road-pricing will be necessary to cut congestion on certain routes, and also to make motoring costs in some way reflect the impact of car emissions on the environment. And it is obvious that “motorists” who consider themselves drivers first and inhabitants of the planet second are likely to object to all of this. Motorists Voice, in the absence of Breathers Voice or Grandkids Voice, tells its members first that the only fair way to penalise heavy fuel users is by higher fuel charges, and second that fuel charges are too high already. So tough.

But that isn’t what I’m writing about. Rather it was the idea that, as motorists, they were hard done by; that they were aggrieved. In fact, by 2003 the cost of motoring in Britain was actually lower than its 1980 level, while public transport fares had risen by more than 33 per cent in the same period. Listen to them moan, though. About speed humps, speed cameras, about pelican crossings — well, you show me a pelican crossing and I’ll show you a dead child whose loss led to the thing being built. Is there anyone at Motorists Voice who could advise its clientele that flashing amber at a crossing means proceed only if all pedestrians are clear, and not hoot your horn, gesticulate and drive at the elderly man with a walking stick?

I’m talking about middle-class self-pity here. So, two days later my wife is walking the dog in the park. She’s a virtuous woman; she clears up and feels others should too. Nearby, she sees a bloke and woman, well-dressed, well-spoken, big dog. Big dog comes over and delivers itself of something as thick as your wrist and that’s all you need to know. Man and woman ignore huge pile and pass by on the other side, so my wife says: “Aren’t you going to clean up after your dog?” “No,” says the woman and walks on.

The man, however, returns and gives my wife an earful, the veins on his forehead throbbing. She’s not a park warden, she’s not a cop, she should mind her own business. He is, he tells her, “sick and tired of being picked on”. He gets nasty but the encounter is ended by some of our jogging friends appearing from behind a tree.

Picked on? Where, exactly, did he develop his sense of entitlement? His dog should be allowed to defecate where it wants, his car should be allowed to park where he wants to park it, his exhaust should be permitted to emit what he wants it to emit. There is no such thing as society, only what I am entitled to. Times readers are not immune to this toxic illusion. Like many of you I much enjoyed Martin Cassini’s article last week on the case for getting rid of traffic lights and all other road restrictions (though the old argument did occur to me that, following Cassini’s logic, an infallible way of avoiding accidents would be to put a large sharp spike in the middle of every steering wheel).

The comments, however, were something else. The reason for congestion, suggested many, was not what we do (drive cars) but what they do (build traffic lights). If they stopped their nonsense and allowed us to carry on with ours, all would be well. It’s such rubbish. If, since 1950, the population of the UK had risen in line with the increase in the number of cars on the road, there would now be 500 million of us — more than the USA and Brazil combined. We are to blame.

And who drives? Above all, the middle classes. In 1996-1998 three fifths of the bottom income quintile did not have a car at all; meanwhile, half of those in the top quintile had two or more cars. Between 1961 and 1998 the proportion of households with two or more cars grew from 2 per cent to 28 per cent. So don’t — Motorists Voice — give me your plausible blah about how you really care for the poor. This is special pleading by that section of the population that makes special pleading an art form. You want to know the real reason why they complain that too many kids are going to university? They don’t want the competition.

So here’s hoping that the next round-robin is about something worthwhile, not a dressed-up plea that the well-off should be left alone to pollute the planet, and help to murder our unborn great-grandchildren.

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